Master's Journey: Stranger in the Stacks #8 (Patreon)

Author's Note: MOOOOORE!

[story]

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‭You stand, frozen, for a few moments, considering what to do, where to go. While the distinct lack of any advice, help, or company does leave you feeling like you’re in free-fall, at least that includes the word “free.” You try to focus on that. Free is good. Really, super good, even.

What you lack in guidance you make up with the absence of restriction. You’re sure the city has its laws, of course, and you have no clue what those laws might be, but if you keep your head down you should be able to stay out of trouble for at least the next few hours. Your eyes flick down to the pistol at your side. One shot, but one real hell of a shot. The threat of it alone should get you out of some otherwise distasteful situations. So, where do you go?

You consider both the long-term and short-term necessities of your situation – you need food, you need money, and you need to get yourself oriented in this vast, foreign place. You know where you can do all those things. There’s one constant, one element that every city, no matter how alien, has in common, and that’s a watering hole, often a plethora of them. All you gotta do is find one.

With a goal in mind, at least a vague one, you take your first steps out into the streets of the Stacks, watching people drift past you on their way towards wherever their little lives are bringing them. They mostly ignore you, though the occasional disgusted glance is shot your way by those who recognize you as a low elf – so, generally, from other elves. You wander listlessly for a few moments, taking in the myriad of different clashing fashions, noting that despite seeming like an endless hive, Vauntreux’s actual people seem fiercely individualistic, less a melting pot than a charcuterie board.

Finally, you zero in on the first person you see who both acknowledges you, and manages not to look at least vaguely disgusted. They’re human, tall but decidedly androgynous, sporting a strawberry blonde pixie-cut, pale, angular features, and a row of tiny rings along the edge of each ear. A dark green leather vest with no shirt underneath and flowy black pants certainly look odd to you, but you’re too new to this city to tell who might be a foreigner, and who might not be.

“Ey, guv!” you call out as they walk past, causing them to stop and look over their shoulder, one long, thin brow subtly arched. “Chat for a sec?”

They look confused for a moment, then fold their arms across their chest and offer a small nod. “Pa se.”

“Bless you?”

They chuckle, shake their head. “Apology. Old tongue. Meaning, ahh… ‘I defer,’ close enough.”

Works for you. “Right, so, I was wondering if there was somewhere to grab a drink near here? I’m new to the stackies, yeah? Lookin’ for any sort of, ah… tavern, bar, pub, speakeasy, waterin’ hole? A public house? A local? A saloon, a boozer? A sipatorium, if you like.”

“I did understand most of those words,” they nod, and a ghost of a smirk touches lips that look pleasantly soft, though on the thinner side. “There are many; some close, some far. I go to one now, if you wish to follow.”

“Would I ever,” you let out a soft sigh of relief. Even if the place ends up being a total dive, at least you’ll have some kind of frame of reference as to where the fuck you are. “You got yourself a name, luv?”

They nod, turning back away from you to lead you onward. “You talk strangely, but I understand you,” they cluck. You’re having an extremely difficult time placing their accent; you’re certain it isn’t one you’re familiar with, but it is faintly reminiscent of some of the carnival workers you’ve traveled with. Each word is a curious sausage of clipped syllables stuffed into too little space. “I am summoned as K’vin.”

“Ah, right, well… when ya need summonin’, then, I suppose,” you say uneasily. It’s odd to have this much of a language barrier with someone speaking the same language as you, but hey, they haven’t called you a no-val yet, so you consider yourself to be ahead of the game. “I’m Iris. Iris Axeflag.”

“Axeflag?” they arch a brow again as you catch up, scurrying behind them, though their long legs take them much farther than yours do you.

“Low elf riot-names get real weird.”

“Riot... names?”

“Like a surname, a bit, yeah?” you try to explain, though doubt you’ll be able to get across the intricacies of the practice, if indeed you even decide to try. “Instead of naming families after professions or locations, my kin like to use sites of revolutionary action. Battles, riots, conflicts, anywhere a little ground was won against the Big Boys up top.”

“You are very strange little elf.”

“Got me there. This the place?” You look up at the place K’vin has led you to. It’s two stories, built of crumbling gray-brown brick and crawling with a teal-colored ivy, sporting a red-shingled roof and not enough windows. Two massive smokestacks sprout from the thing, one from its roof, and another from the lower floor’s side, both happily gushing dark plumes of smog into the already smoke-darkened Vauntreux sky. A sign above the dull red double-doors, in peeling black paint, reads “The Fat Lantern,” and a painting of the place’s namesake seems to have aged beyond recognition.

“Ku, so it is,” K’vin nods, making their way inside with you skittering along behind.

Inside, the place is a hell of a lot bigger than it looks. An antler chandelier hangs from the center of the ceiling, and (suitably corpulent) lanterns decorate the tables, keeping the tavern nicely lit. You quickly scan for people to talk to, and clock a few that might be promising – a female oran serving as waitress, a stocky human man behind the bar, and a slim figure in a dark jacket situated in the Fat Lantern’s moodiest corner, a wide black hat cloaking their face in shadow. Your hand moves to the gun at your side, and you drape a little of your oversized shirt over it, concealing it, but… not particularly well.

What do you do?